Reverberate
by zero-damage
Summary: Persona 3/Persona 4. Six years after the Fall, ambiguity's a comfort.


_A/N: A Persona 3/Persona 4 crossover...technically. Older story, a bit odd. Spoilers for P3 ending with mentions of the P4 worst ending (making it to Christmas Eve without catching the true killer - __search for a video titled: "P4 - Murdered "The Final Hour"" by MasterLL on YouTube__). Pronoun choice is made from Ryoji's viewpoint._

* * *

It starts as a tug at the edge of his senses, just before he's ripped back fast through the dark. At the time he's not sure why, or rather he hasn't the chance to think about it, not with his spine being yanked inside and out, his bones cracking and reforming. He's the Appriser, he's Thanatos, he's the boy with a scarf and a smile. And in the distance there's another boy: thin and pale and dark, midnight blue.

He breathes with a shudder, and latches on.

* * *

When he opens his eyes he's lying in scattered debris; steel girders, wooden planks, lumps of concrete. Standing is a challenge and twice he slumps back down, but the third time he grabs hold of a metal frame and pulls himself to his feet. There are people walking under the street lights and though he's certain they're looking right at him they still pass by in silence.

It's impossible to explain, but it's like coming home. A foyer was over here, and wooden stairwells were over there. Rubble shouldn't feel so familiar, he thinks, and nearly laughs - until he looks up and sees the boy balanced on the stone sheet opposite. He's small, dark haired - almost blue in the dim light - and he just sits and stares, as familiar as the concrete and steel.

There's a sensation of being anchored, even tethered, and his breath catches in his throat.

_Are you, maybe,_ he nearly asks the boy, but it comes out as: You can see me?

The boy nods and the motion means: _yes I see you, yes I am him, mayb_e. There's something not quite right, something small yet glaring; a melody played one key up. But he smiles anyway, and the not-quite-boy raises a hand to their cap. "You are Ryoji. I was told to wait for you."

* * *

The only purpose of a name now is to satisfy the not-quite-boy's relentless good manners - but Ryoji is both comfortable and familiar and he soon remembers how to answer to it, even if his new friend is the only one to ever speak the word. Everyone else looks at him yet doesn't, like they're staring at glass. He asks, walking through the park on the second day, if he might be a ghost.

"We're real enough, Ryoji," the not-quite-boy tells him, pulling a strip of bark from a tree by way of illustration. But while people do see them - Ryoji will buy coffee from the café in the shopping mall later, then realize afterwards that he's never liked the bitter taste - they never remember. Ryoji and the not-quite-boy leave no tracks on their memories. The topography never changes.

Despite this, the not-quite - a taut and regimented assembly of angles always at his side - puts considerable stock in names. _Ryoji_ becomes a preface or postfix to almost every sentence. One day, invisible outside the gates of Gekkoukan High, it occurs to him to ask: what was yours?

There's a flicker of confusion, like a ripple on a lake, then a long pause. "...Shirogane, I think."

Ryoji tries the name out on his tongue (_Shi-ro-ga-ne_), tries using it on the not-quite too, until he realizes there's usually no response. He'd try the other's name, but he never finds the courage.

* * *

They always return to the debris at night, mostly because of Ryoji. Force of habit; he's supposed to be here, or he was. The city seems in no hurry to clear the site away and they both sit perched on lumps of concrete beneath the dim lamplights.

"Are there people here you wish to see," the not-quite asks him, with a lack of inflection that makes it more courtesy than question.

Ryoji, a betrayer alive for barely two months, says: No, I don't think so.

(There's one, but he's looking at them now, almost.)

* * *

One day, the not-quite wants to visit a town. They don't recall the name at first, but they do remember the train. The two buy tickets, sit on the threadbare seat together, and wait to pass something familiar.

Why, he asks the not-quite, just to fill the gaps between the click of metal against the rails, why were you told to wait for me?

"To ensure events unfold as they should." It's not a helpful answer at all, so he tries a second question: how are things supposed to go?

There's a certain path, the not-quite explains with the ease of the confident and meticulous. "The rest are dead branches," they say, gesturing to the black trees outside the train window. "Time flows backwards, and history corrects itself."

Ryoji wonders aloud, am I from one of those?

The not-quite looks away. "You are supposed to be here, Ryoji. I will ensure you remain so."

* * *

They start out in a store: a sea of friendly colours and white-bright lights that makes Ryoji's eyes ache, but not in a bad way. The not-quite leads him through aisles and under banners - "Holiday Sale", "Happy New Year 2016" - glancing from floor to wall to ceiling. The tiles beneath his feet are pale sand, the metal shelves are summer sky blue and there are tins and boxes and bottles everywhere. It's a fascinating place, really, and not something Ryoji's ever seen before (two months isn't very long at all.)

The not-quite turns back to him, looking mildly curious. "This is new to you?"

Ryoji nods. Most things are, he says with a smile. It's all very intriguing.

There's a hum of - of something, agreement, perhaps. "I think you remind me of..."

Ryoji waits patiently for the end of the sentence, but either there isn't one or the not-quite just forgets. They leave the store, walking back through a huge room of stereos and televisions, and cross the street.

The structures here are older. They're built from wood instead of concrete and the colours are faded but warm. Here bare trees twist and stretch over the road; here there's a store with rolls of fabric in the windows; here the planks of buildings groan in the breeze. All this is new too. Ryoji tells the not-quite he likes this town, maybe they can visit again - but the not-quite's looking away, watching something - someone - further down the road.

When he looks closely, shielding his eyes against the sunlight, it's the not-quite, but less sharp and less forced. There are smooth arcs, and when the woman raises her hand Ryoji imagines red blood pumping beneath the skin. She walks up to a man standing by a metal noticeboard, all muscles and long limbs, and the way they both break into smiles when their eyes meet - the way he curls his fingers around hers - trips a switch in Ryoji's memory. The man's the other and the woman's him and the sky's jade green and their hands and arms are intertwined... until the world shifts back, and he's standing in the middle of a run-down shopping district.

The not-quite is watching them too, he notices, and the winter sun shines through them like paper. Ryoji takes their hand, places his fingers over their own, and images flood in. A television screen filled with crackling static; a small winged creature swinging a beam of light; a man with a yellow eyes and a smile. It's Christmas Eve and the not-quite lies bleeding in the December fog, a storm of howls and shadows overhead. He blinks, and the pictures vanish.

So, he says, your world ended too.

The not-quite shakes their head. "Only one of them," they tell him - but Ryoji thinks that's the same thing, in the end.

* * *

Riding the train back to Port Island, Ryoji tries to remember key things: hair (midnight, almost blue), skin (colorless and cold), eyes (dark). But he's forgetting everything, so he tries searching for it in the sharp edges of the not-quite-boy sitting beside him, hand clasped tight in his, and in the shadows cast beneath their cap.

_Are you, maybe_, but the words don't leave his lips. The not-quite catches him staring, looks mildly curious, and their eyes say: _maybe, maybe I am, or not._

They'll go back, sit outside the dormitory, stand in the school corridors, wander through the shopping mall. One day they might visit the town again, go see the colourful store; one day, then another. It finally occurs to Ryoji, then, to ask what they're waiting for. "The Second Coming," the not-quite says, and for the first time, he sees the bitter twist of a smile.

* * *

They walk down by the shore and underneath the Moonlight Bridge. It's still winter and in the early morning Ryoji can't tell the grey water from the iron sky. He's never liked January, even if he only lived through one, almost.

"March is even worse," the not-quite tells him, a stark black silhouette against grey. Ryoji doesn't really listen, though, just tries to remember a crooked and changing pile of bone and marble; the dozens of moments in the seconds before his world collapsed in on itself. Even the gaps between each breath were filled with them, until the instant when a boy with midnight hair plunged a sword through his chest. But the moments are escaping - and though every memory he has is of the boy, it's not always the boy he sees.

A hand grabs his tightly. "Time shifts, people shift." The words come from nowhere and the not-quite doesn't elaborate, but Ryoji just smiles and twines their fingers. They sit together, his forehead against the not-quite's temple, his lips pressed against the back of their hand, and he thinks: _maybe, maybe._

* * *

The not-quite's lips are smooth (just like the other's, almost) and there are strands of night against their neck and Ryoji's hands match tight over their shirt and over the sharp slopes of their shoulder blades. Are you him, Ryoji asks, you look like him, are you, maybe? But the not-quite's fingers run silent along his jaw, writing in script: _don't ask me questions I can't answer._


End file.
